Just Breathe
by dirtydeedsdonedirtcheap
Summary: How do you explain death to a four-year-old child?


**Disclaimer:**** Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. Everything else belongs to me. **

**Just Breathe**

The Burrow was unusually quiet, reminding those old enough to remember a dark time in their lives when they were sure happiness would never find them again. Today it felt like that. The normally bustling house was filled to the brim with a slew of family and friends, all dressed in somber black attire, sniffling here and there, sitting around like statues.

Rose Weasley didn't understand what was going on but she knew it had to be something serious. All morning she had been racking her brain, trying to recall what was the last bad thing she did. Drinking out of the milk carton wasn't a crime, was it? She wasn't sure and had decided to spend her entire day gripping her father's hand, biting her bottom lip and nervously looking around if the Auror's were going to take her to Azkaban.

Her parents had told her all about that place. It was where bad girls and boys went because they didn't eat enough vegetables. She frowned, remembering the cauliflower she had refused to eat two days ago and the green peas she had flung at their naughty cat Crookshanks.

It wasn't Rose's fault, she _wasn't_ a bad girl, she just didn't like anything healthy (or green).

She stared at her father who seemed lost in another world, his hand tightly squeezing hers, stooping down so he didn't tug her arm. They stood in the middle of the kitchen while everyone else had seats, staring at them with sad, tearful eyes.

"_Why is everyone so sad?"_ Rose thought to herself.

She didn't really want to know why. All she wanted to do was play. She had felt the urge to run around all day. The feeling was festering inside of her, building up to an uncontrollable need, making her feel like she was going to burst like a bubble. Normally when she went to her grandparents house that was the thing she did right away. It was always, 'Go play outside Rosie,' an almost mechanical command.

She kicked her leg, trying to fight off the urge she was feeling and scratched her bum instead. Her dress was too itchy and it wasn't what Rose wanted to wear. She had fought her father for over an hour, squirming under his grip, not wanting to get into the silly thing. It kept swishing whenever she walked and the capsleeves were too tight on her chubby arms. The high neck was suffocating her and the itchy wool not only scratched her skin but also made her feel dreadfully hot in the summer heat.

Her face flushed red from anger as her younger brother Hugo started to cry in her Uncle Harry's arms. Most of her family members, more than she could count, raced after him as he fled the room, bouncing the boy up and down in his arms.

She was left staring at her father—who was as still as the statues she saw birds resting on in the park—and her grandparents who hadn't even said hello to her in the morning.

"Daddy," she said, reaching up to tug his sleeve. "I want to play."

-x-

Ron didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge his daughter. His father wasn't even sure Ron could hear her. The lost look on his sons face tore him apart and he glanced at his granddaughter whose face was filled with rage.

"_Daddy_!" she shouted louder. "I _want_ to play! I _WANT_ out of this dress!" she screeched. She was stomping her feet on the wooden floor with growing impatience, letting go of her father's hand and tugging at her dress.

Arthur Weasley pinched the bridge of his nose and patted one hand on top of his nearly baldhead. He glanced at his wife who hiccupped and ran out of the room, mumbling under her breath as tears fell from her eyes.

He didn't move from the stool he was sitting on. Instead he glanced around the room, not really noticing what was there or who was peeking in, just trying to look anywhere but his grandchild and his son, staring longingly at the old Weasley family clock that had broken years ago.

It had happened after George had come home and noticed Fred's name pointing to 'lost.' He had punched it with his hands, hitting the clock so many times, by the time Arthur had found his son he was lying on the ground bleeding to death, shards of glass jutting out of his skin.

He couldn't help George overcome his grief then. It was something he could barely come to terms with himself.

How did you comfort a child when you needed comfort as well?

He could barely look at Ron, let alone talk to him _and_ Rose. She was an exact replica of Ron, freckled skin, shaggy red colored hair and her _appetite_! The two of them could finish off an entire sheet cake alone.

"Daddy! Say something to me!" Rose shouted, punching her father's leg with her small fists. "I want my mummy!" she wailed. "Where's my mummy!"

Loud gasps could be heard from the other room and Arthur couldn't take it anymore. Maybe he was a coward. He didn't care.

This wasn't a conversation for him to have, for him to listen to and be part of. He couldn't handle hearing what his son was going to say.

-x-

Rose glared at her grandfather as he left the kitchen, limping from old age. He had ignored her the entire day. It was _rude_ and her parents had taught her to ignore rude people.

Ron would have laughed at the scowl on her face but once his father stepped out of the kitchen he let go of his only daughter and walked to the wooden kitchen table, grabbing one of the chairs and letting it scrape against the floor before sitting down.

"Come on," he said wearily, pointing at the chair next to him, "sit down."

Rose huffed, crossing her arms against her chest and stared at her father. After a second thought, only because he whispered 'please' she walked over to him and climbed onto the opposite chair, immediately starting to twist the end of the red and white checkered tablecloth.

It was the most fun she would likely have all day.

"Rosie," he said wearily, "stop that. We have to talk." His voice shook slightly and was filled with a tremendous amount of pain.

It was obvious it annoyed Rose the way her father kept speaking to her so she ignored him, even when he grabbed her hands to try and stop her from moving.

"Rosie, I love you." Ron whispered, patting her head.

She stared sourly at him and pouted, responding with, "I love you too Daddy."

He nodded, fingering a lock of her messy red hair and sighed. "This is very hard to say Rose. You may not understand—"

Her blue eyes flashed angrily and she sat up straighter in her chair, eyeing Ron. "I'm a _big_ girl," she insisted, cutting him off sharply. "I understand _lots_!"

He smiled sadly and nodded his head in agreement. "Rose, your mum died," he said with a slight cough, repeating the statement again, only stronger.

He waited for Rose to react but she didn't, not at first. Then she scratched her head and frowned.

"What does died mean?" she questioned. "Mummy never told me that word. Do you have her special blue book so _we_ can find out?"

Ron inhaled and sharply exhaled, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to come down and were making his vision blurry. Hermione's special blue dictionary. The one Rose was only allowed to touch with her permission because books were special and they were supposed to be handled with care.

"Mummy died, and that means you—_we_," he paused, trying to get used to the idea himself. He knew he never would. "It means _we_ won't see her anymore."

His fingers fell from her hair and he watched her closely. It was clear she didn't understand what he was saying. What little girl would?

-x-

Never see her mummy again? Who was going to tuck her into bed at night and read her a story?

Who was she going to go to and hug whenever she was happy? The smell of her mummy's vanilla and honey shampoo seemed like a distant memory to her now.

Rose scrunched up her nose, her body filling with an unknown emotion, one she only felt before when she had fallen off of her starter broom when she first learned to fly. She was struggling to picture her mum's face, her bushy brown hair was all she could see.

Her lower lip trembled and her blue eyes filled with tears.

"But doesn't she love me?" she questioned, hanging her head down and curling up in her chair. "I promise I'll be a good girl if she comes back. I _promise_."

-x-

Ron gulped, tears freely rolling down his cheeks as he leaned over and wrapped Rose in his arms.

"Rosie, Mummy loved you _so_ much." He managed to whisper. "Mummy loved you more than you know but sometimes there are accidents…and your mum got hurt," he paused, unable to think of anything else to say.

How do you explain to a four-year-old child that she will never see her mother again?

How do you explain death to a child when you can barely understand it yourself?

His son was barely two.

Ron was filled with pain and anger. After he had gotten a phone call early in the morning from a muggle hospital telling him his wife had been in a terrible car accident while visiting her parents he thought it was a joke.

A _sick_ joke and it wasn't funny. Then a Healer appeared, stepping right out of his fireplace and hanging his head, relaying the message to Ron again.

Even magic couldn't save her.

Ron had ripped the phone off the wall in anger.

_I'm sorry_.

That's all they had said.

Sorry wasn't going to bring his wife back. It wasn't going to bring the mother of his children back.

He let go of Rose, leaning back onto his chair and listening to the sobs that racked her small body, making her hiccup every so often.

A loud creak forced Ron to look up from the table and he turned to stare at his father, his face contorted with pain as he stared at the two.

"Grampy," Rose said, picking up her head and hiccupping slightly, "Daddy says I'll never see Mummy again."

His father nodded his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

But sorry wasn't good enough.

-x-

Rose poked her hand through the bars of Hugo's white crib, examining his sleeping body. She didn't hear the door to the room open and jumped as a hand softly touched her shoulder.

"Rosie, what are you doing?" Her father questioned lightly.

She didn't respond, she poked her younger brother's stomach and waited for a response from him.

It didn't come and she jumped back, bursting into tears.

"Daddy! Hugo died!" she howled, falling to the floor. She hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth. "Mummy died too!"

Her father mumbled some words she didn't understand to himself and walked over to the crib that her brother was sleeping in and reached in to pick him up gently.

"Rose Weasley," he whispered, trying to calm her down, "your brother is fine. Look."

Rose hiccupped, picking her head up quickly and grabbed her brother's tiny toes, his foot jerked slightly.

-x-

"Get into bed," Ron commanded wearily, placing his son back into his crib.

She didn't need to be told twice. Rose yawned as she ran to the bed on the opposite side of the room, laying down and wiggling around, pulling at the covers but waited patiently for her father to tuck her in.

Ron sighed, staring at the burnt orange walls of the room he had grown up in, the memories flooding his brain. A seeker zoomed on a forgotten poster that Ron had left up, his mother had been too nostalgic to take it down.

He walked over to the bed and stared at his daughter. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt he had found in a trunk that belonged to him when he was her age. It had holes and was badly stained but the thought of entering his house right now was too much to handle.

He grinned, tucking Rose in and kissing her lightly on the nose.

"Love you Rosie, sweet dreams." She repeated his words and snuggled into her sheets, dozing off quickly.

Ron walked out of the room and closed the door lightly behind him.

But that's when it hit him. A wave of panic. A scream so heart wrenching that he was sure it would bring him to his knees. His heart pounded nervously in his chest as he opened the door, rushing into the room, wand out, ready to destroy whoever or whatever it was that was terrorizing his children.

But he saw _nothing_. Just the sight of a startled Rose who yawned at her father and then slumped back into bed tiredly.

He tried to catch his breath, pocketing his wand and taking one last careful look around the room before exiting it. It was all in his head. He was too wound up from recent events. He needed sleep.

Ron closed the door to the room once again, getting far enough to reach the loo when he heard the scream _again_.

This time it was louder and there was another sound, sobs that made Ron barge into his old room, wand at the ready, slashing the poster that hung on the wall.

It ripped in two, falling to the floor forgotten as he stared at the sleeping body of his daughter. Panic filled his body once again because he was sure she wasn't breathing.

He rushed over to her, dropping his wand to the floor and was ready to pull her dead body out of bed when her chest fell, a loud snore escaping her body.

Ron shook his head from confusion and ran a tired hand through his red hair. He decided to walk over to the white crib, to stare at his son and panic found him again.

The moonlight, in his eyes, made his son look _deathly_ pale.

"Just breathe," he begged painfully, "just breathe."

Terrifying thoughts and images rushed through his head. His son dead, unable to wake-up and wail for his father. His daughter slumped to the floor, eyes wide open in shock due to the killing curse. The three of them dying in a car accident. His entire family on a trip to visit his brother Charlie and being burned alive by a dragon.

He panicked as he put his ear near his son's mouth, waiting for a breath of air to escape his tiny lips. It _did_ but it didn't put Ron's racing mind to ease.

Hermione was dead.

Hermione was dead and he would never get to see her again.

His heart thumped loudly in his chest, faster than normal, and he slumped to his knees, placing his hand to his heart. _He_ was _dying. _He panicked and dropped to the palms of his hands, rolling onto his back.

His son was breathing.

His daughter was snoring lightly.

But it wasn't enough for Ron as he lay on the cold floor, staring up at the peeling orange ceiling, blue eyes opened wide from terror as thoughts of death filled his head.

He wasn't ready to die.

It scared him, no, it _terrified_ him that he would live in fear for the rest of his life, waiting for the day to arrive when he would.

**Author's Note:**** Wow. I actually don't even know what to say. This is the first time I've ever written something like this. It's for the 'Phobia Challenge' and my phobia was: Fear of Death. I'm really interested to know what you all thought about this so leave me a review if you have the time. **

**Final Edit: 18 July 2012**

_**3**__**rd**__** Place in the Phobia Challenge**_


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